Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(108)

It's delicious, ice cold, and it makes my mouth a much better place. I clamber out of bed, anxious to close the distance—real and metaphysical—between my husband and me. I glance quickly at the alarm. It's eight o'clock. I strip off Christian's T-shirt and follow him into the bathroom. He's in the shower, washing his hair, and I don't hesitate. I slip in behind him, and he stiffens the moment I wrap my arms around him—my front to his wet, muscular back. I ignore his reaction, holding him tightly, and press my cheek flat against him, closing my eyes. After a moment, he shifts so we are both under the cascade of hot water and carries on washing his hair. I let the water wash over me as I cradle the man I love. I think of all the times he's f*cked me and all the times he's made love to me in here. I frown. He's never been this quiet. Turning my head, I start to trail kisses across his back. His body stiffens again.

"Ana," he warns.

"Hmm."

My hands travel slowly down over his taut stomach to his belly. He places both his hands on mine and brings them to an abrupt halt. He shakes his head.

"Don't," he warns.

I release him, immediately. He's saying no? My mind goes into free fall—has this ever happened before? My subconscious shakes her head, her lips pursed. She glares at me over her half-moon glasses, wearing her you've-really-f*cked-up-this-time look. I feel like I've been slapped, hard. Rejected. And a lifetime of in-security spawns the ugly thought he doesn't want me anymore. I gasp as the pain sears through me. Christian turns, and I'm relieved to see he's not completely oblivious to my charms. Grasping my chin, he tilts my head back, and I find myself gazing into his wary, beautiful eyes.

"I'm still f*cking mad at you," he says, his voice quiet and serious. Shit!

Leaning down, he rests his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. I reach up and caress his face.

"Don't be mad at me, please. I think you're overreacting," I whisper.

He straightens, blanching. My hand falls free to my side.

"Overreacting?" he snarls. "Some f*cking lunatic gets into my apartment to kidnap my wife, and you think I'm overreacting!" The restrained menace in his voice is frightening, and his eyes blaze as he stares at me as if I'm the f*cking lunatic.

"No . . . um, that's not what I was referring to. I thought this was about me staying out."

He closes his eyes once more as if in pain and shakes his head.

"Christian, I wasn't here." I try to appease and reassure him.

"I know," he whispers opening his eyes. "And all because you can't follow a simple, f*cking request." His tone is bitter and it's my turn to blanch. "I don't want to discuss this now, in the shower. I am still f*cking mad at you, Anastasia.

You're making me question my judgment." He turns and promptly leaves the shower, grabbing a towel on the way and stalking out of the bathroom, leaving me bereft and chilled under the hot water.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Then the significance of what he's just said dawns on me. Kidnap? Fuck.

Jack wanted to kidnap me? I recall the duct tape and not wanting to think too deeply about why Jack had that. Does Christian have more information? Hurriedly I wash myself, then shampoo and rinse my hair. I want to know. I need to know. I am not going to let him keep me in the dark about this.

Christian's not in the bedroom when I come out. Jeez, he dresses quickly. I do the same, throwing on my favorite plum dress and black sandals, and I'm conscious that I've chosen this outfit because Christian likes it. I vigorously towel-dry my hair, then braid it and wind it into a bun. Fitting diamond studs into my ears, I dash to the bathroom to apply a little mascara and glance at myself in the mirror.